


inferno

by lando_cal_rice_ian



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 15:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16957041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lando_cal_rice_ian/pseuds/lando_cal_rice_ian
Summary: feeling unloved, you leave your husband - the D.A. - but find yourself being swept up by the exciting attentions of a villain





	1. inferno | part i.

**Author's Note:**

> super canon-divergent . aged-up jerome . two-face's origin is different . probably ridiculously ooc (for everybody)
> 
> really fucking long (am I talking about this fic or jerome's big dick energ-- I'm talking about this fic, lol, here's a glass of water sweetie if the thirst is too much heheh~)
> 
> hey fam, so uh... don't cheat ay. it'll make things less ugly and hurtful. xx
> 
> hope ya enjoy my trash writing! xx  
> [it's all unedited atm, so please excuse any mistakes]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TUMBLR REQUEST: Reader is married to Harvey Dent when he was a DA but cheats on him with Jerome because he’s thrilling and dangerous while Harvey is boring. Harvey takes her back when he becomes two face. Thank you! 💕

The path was littered with fallen leaves when Harvey Dent smiled at you for the first time. Crisp, autumn leaves, blends of oranges and yellows that rustled under your feet as you walked to your first morning lecture. Even among the trickle of college students then, he stood out. Immaculate, gentle, intelligent, beautiful Harvey Dent...

That memory was fading, now. Among others, it wilted, dying like those last leaves whispering from the trees above you the night Harvey first kissed you after leaving a tacky Halloween party.

Sure, pictures reminded you of them: your first date at the movies, birthdays and anniversaries you spent together, a secret photo you snapped of him the first night he spent over (his bed-hair still adorable in the morning, the first time you caught him as not his usual tidy self), Christmases in your shared apartment after you both graduated, your proposal, engagement party, wedding... Then the pictures started to slow. You hadn't had many new ones in a  _long_ time. Hell, you barely even saw Harvey at home anymore.

You understood being a D.A. demanded a lot from your husband; but it still hurt when he forgot that anniversary, missed one too many dinner dates, barely spoke to, looked at, or touched you. You, as his wife, seemed to come second behind Gotham. And god, it stung.

You even tried for a baby to get him back. It wasn't until the third time you were sat in the bathroom, sniffing back tears, negative pregnancy test trembling in your hand that you realised...  _What the hell were you doing_?

Summer gave way to autumn when you left. That was when the phone calls started, the letters, the office visits and flowers and gifts and professions of love and devotion. He was still immaculate, his suit pressed and neat, not a strand of dark hair out of place, face just as pretty as the first day you saw him.

You loved him, of course. But it was then you realised how much of a shell Harvey Dent was. Apart from his coin, did he have much more to his personality than his ambitions to make Gotham a better place?

"Do you want a divorce?" His careful voice had a trace of coolness to it. It surprised you. Harvey had never used that voice on you before. Was it his attorney voice, you wondered?

It had been months. Had he reached exasperation? Was he mad at you for leaving?

"I... don't know," you admitted. "I just need some time. And space."

His jaw tightened. The bustle of your office could be heard from the slight opened crack of your door. But in that moment, all you saw was the darkening of his eyes, all you heard was the crack of his knuckles when he clenched his fists too tight under the desk.

"I love you, Harvey." Your whisper did little to reassure him. He stood and turned to leave when you called, "Really, I do."

He paused. "But you're not coming back."

It wasn't a question.

And you weren't a woman who would easily back down.

"No."

Months turned into a year. The separation just became a comfortable state of life for you. Sometimes, you still got the odd letter, or phone call from Harvey; but the letters were signed off formally; and the phone calls brief, his voice not quite so gentle as you remembered.

You saw him on TV, or in pictures. It felt strange reading about him in the newspapers when this man was once... no, still was, your husband. And yet you knew so little about him, now.

It wasn't until Wayne Enterprises was holding a gala that you met with him again. He looked debonair in his tuxedo, his D.A. charm working wonders with the crowd, his smile easy but commanding and his eyes caring but...

There was something else there. Not just his usual calm, calculating scrutiny. It was  _something else._

"[Y/N]." He greeted curtly. You smiled and went to hug him. He tensed in your arms. "This is my wife," he continued to the visiting senator and his wife. You barely paid attention to their names when Harvey finished the introductions.

"How lovely," said the woman with a smile. "I don't believe I met you, dear, when Howard and I visited for dinner last week."

You spared Harvey a glance. "I was out, I'm so sorry. My godchild had a fever and was taken to the hospital and I just... I just couldn't–"

"Oh, no, sweetie." She took your hand. "I understand. We, Howard, darling, tell her– We understand."

God save you. You had no godchildren.

The senator and his wife, Marie, you discovered, were called away across the room a moment later, leaving you alone for the first time in months with Harvey. You turned to him, but found that he was looking away, drinking from his champagne flute as if with nonchalance, but there was a sour aura emanating from him that kept you at arm's length.

"Harv..."

"Don't call me that." But his gaze softened when he saw you grimace. "Please. It hurts."

You nodded, eyes downcast.

He was no longer there and you could vaguely recall a familiar voice – Jim Gordon, you deduced – calling him away. You glanced up and looked for him. It was Jim's eyes you met, and he smiled softly in your direction, his knowing expression giving way to sympathy.

You could see Harvey playing with his coin between his fingers.

One champagne flute turned to two, then three, then four. By the fifth one, you were pleasantly buzzed.

Suddenly, it was stuffy in the ballroom. You coughed, fanning yourself as you rushed to the balcony, weaving through the crowd. You brushed past Harvey along the way. He glanced at you fleetingly, considered his options – decided against following you – then returned to his conversation with the mayor.

The cool night air was a relief. It traced your flushed skin, cold fingers leaving a frigid, but welcome touch. It was so cold, you barely noticed the tears running down your face; until it felt as if they were freezing against your cheeks, and you hurriedly wiped them away.

"You shouldn't cry." The sudden voice made you startle. You turned to the source at your side. A few feet from you sat a young man, so dangerously close to toppling over the parapet that you sucked in a breath in shock. His feet swayed back and forth over the edge, and he was smiling.

As the initial shock wore off, you found yourself retorting, "Don't tell me not to cry. What kind of asshole–"

He wheezed out a laugh before exclaiming, "Crying is no fun!" He suddenly turned, swinging his legs over, and jumped down to approach you. His red hair stood out in the dark, set afire from the light bleeding out from inside. "Smile. Laugh.  _Live_. It's more fun."

You rolled your eyes. "That is such freshman talk. God, what are you, eighteen, nineteen?"

"Twenty-two." He was so close you could feel his warmth from beside you. You turned away to gaze out at the city.

"A youth." You poked at the hard surface of the parapet. "Figures."

"You're not  _that_  old, grandma." He was grinning, you could see it out the corner of your eye.

You laughed. "I'm twenty-seven, okay. Life's given me enough to last for a while. Wait until you graduate college, child."

"I don't go to college." He leaned too far over the edge and you instantaneously reached over to push him back. "I've got better things to do," he finished.

" _God_ , be  _careful_." You were fussing, your tears forgotten as you frowned up at his – still smiling – face. You were straightening his tie when he grabbed your upper arms; your cries ignored, he pushed you over the top of the parapet, its hard surface digging into your back. You tried to push him away, but when you felt yourself slip further over the edge, yelped and gripped him closer.

He leaned close to you and whispered, "Live on the edge and you'll see wasting your life in tears is no way to live. There's too much fun to be had instead of letting life beat you down. Beat it back by enjoying yourself."

His breath fanned your face, its warm touch a rival to the night breeze. He smelled of mint and cologne, of aftershave and... something metallic.

You whispered, "That really is some bullshit freshman talk."

"I'm not a freshman, I told you." He pushed you down further. You could slap him for smiling at your gasp – slap that stupid smile off his face and—

Screams broke through the silence, disturbing the night air with its shrill terror. Gunshots followed. You barely had time to react before the odd stranger pulled you back and laughed, "Time to go!"

Your protests and questions went unheard as he hauled you into the ballroom, the dispersing crowd coming to a still when he pulled a gun from his suit jacket and shot it into the air... before bringing it to your temple and pressing it close.

"Greetings and salutations!" His voice carried through the ballroom. And god, he was still smiling that same smile he had been on the balcony. But now you didn't feel brave enough to slap it off him. He took the gun from the side of your head and waved it in the air. "My name is Jerome and I will be your entertainer this evening."

The barrel was cool when you felt it press against your temple again. "I want you all to listen  _very_ carefully, and  _no_ sudden movements, or else her blood will be on your hands." He pulled you close, his arm holding your back against his chest. "Well, her blood will be on  _my_ hands, but ya know, it'll be  _your_ fault." He pointed the gun into the crowd and there was a collective cry. "So stay  _very still_ , folks. Or I'll paint this dull place red like a Bob Ross masterpiece."

Figures in clown masks and with guns in their hands pushed through the crowd, ripping jewels and purses and wallets and car-keys from guests. You felt your own pearls being tugged from your throat but in that moment you didn't give a damn about your necklace.

"Don't cry, sweetheart," he whispered in your ear. "Life's too short for tears, remember?"

"Don't do this." Jim was near the front, arms raised, face calm, but his eyes were livid. "Jerome, let her go. Money and jewels mean nothing compared to lives. Let everyone go safely, and you and your friends won't get hurt."

"Oh, but I don't mind getting a little hurt." Jerome tightened his grip on you. "It's part of the fun."

A man twitched and Jerome fired his gun, the bullet burying into the polished floor at the businessman's feet. He paled and sank to the floor, and above it all Jerome laughed. He held his gun lazily over your shoulder, resting it against your chest as he turned his head to talk to Gordon. His voice became distant, until you heard nothing over your roaring blood, and your blurred, tear-filled eyes found Harvey in the crowd. You blinked, the tears fell to reveal your husband's face, and there it was: red, hot, scathing rage. He held a trembling woman, who you recognised as Marie, but his focus was on your attacker. If glares could kill, Jerome would be lit on fire by now.

"Well, folks, it's been fun. Thanks so much for your donations. To be honest I don't need the money, I just thought, you know what, you all don't deserve it." Suddenly, he lifted the gun, his hand harsh when he held it to your head so hard that it bit into your skin. "You can never end the party without a bang, though."

You cried, desperation washing over you as you struggled in his hold. You brought your foot down onto his foot but he barely budged. You could hear Jim calling, "Jerome, no, don't!"

"You can't," he repeated, squeezing the trigger, "can you?"

The click was followed by his abrupt yell. " _Bang_!" The lights turned out and washed the room in darkness. You felt him push you forward and you stumbled onto your hands and knees. Your sobs were drowned in the crowd's screams.

It wasn't until you felt strong but cautious arms gather you against a warm chest and the lights bathe you once again that you relaxed. You gripped onto the person's shirt as they put a jacket around you, then held you close.

"I've got you. He's gone. I've got you."

Jim appeared at your side. "[Y/N]." He placed an anchoring hand on your shoulder and scrutinised you. "I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"

You couldn't speak, let alone move. Jim rubbed your shoulder and offered a gentle half-smile. "Stupid question, I know. It's okay. I won't ever let him touch you again. I promise."

"Kill him, Gordon. Kill the fucker if you have to. Just don't let him fuck anyone over like that again, you hear me?"

You saw Jim's eyes widen in surprise. "That's unlike you, Dent..."

"This is Gotham. We all learn, eventually."

Jim cleared his throat. "I have questions–"

"Not now." When he repeated himself, his voice softened, "Not now."

Jim nodded.

You could barely remember being carried out of the ballroom, or the car ride, not even the doorman outside your apartment calling out in alarm and ushering you both inside and to the elevator. When you got to bed was a haze to you, when you slept a total mystery, but you could remember the tender touch of fingers combing through your hair.

You awoke to the smell of breakfast, pancakes and golden syrup and hot chocolate. Your gown was a mess and your hair even more so, but the lethargy made you care little about it. Managing to drag yourself out of bed, you padded into the lounge, heading for the kitchenette. Harvey stood behind the kitchen island, stirring a mug, frowning in thought.

"Harv?" He glanced up at the sound of your small voice. "Harv, what... Last night... I– I–"

His smile was so small it seemed non-existent. It was a reassuring expression. "It's all right, [Y/N/N]. Here, have something to eat. Try not to think about it."

You rubbed your eyes and he smiled, his gaze tender. It reminded him of that first time you woke up together in your dorm room, you, a bright sophomore, him, nearing graduation for his first diploma. You still had that adorable pout when you did that. It made his heart beat faster... But it also made it break.

"When was the last time you made me breakfast?" You mumbled, sitting at the island.

"Too long ago." He pushed the plate closer to you.

"Don't you have work?" The words could barely get past the swell in your throat. Your hand shook when you held the utensils. Harvey noticed, and reached across to take them from you, and quietly cut the pancakes for you.

"Doesn't matter." He went silent, then, once finished, handed you the fork and stood back, chewing at his lower lip. His coin sat on the countertop, and he fingered it absently. "I called in. I won't leave until you don't need me, until you want me to."

"Harvey..." You clenched and unclenched your grip on the fork. Taking a deep breath managed to dislodge some of the swell in your throat, enough to get out a gentle, stronger, "Thank you."

He closed his palm around his coin. "Always, [Y/N]. I'll always be there, whenever you need me."

You smiled. But it faltered.  _You still weren't ready to go back_. But there was a part of you, you realised, that wanted to.

You loved him, your tender, good Harvey Dent. And, you had a feeling, he still loved you, too. 

 


	2. inferno | part ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> draw too near an open flame, and you might just be burned...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super canon-divergent . aged-up jerome . two-face's origin is different . probably ridiculously ooc (for everybody)
> 
> really fucking long (am I talking about this fic or jerome's big dick energ-- I'm talking about this fic, lol, here's a glass of water sweetie if the thirst is too much heheh~)
> 
> here's some more of my trash. I actual hate this, but I'm desperate to finish at this point. enjoy, loves.

"He's dangerous, [Y/N]." The warning was unnecessary – you were aware of this. But Jim said it all the same. "We don't want a repeat of that night. If he's ever near you again, please,  _call me_."

His number was saved in your contacts. From Gordon it had become a simple  _Jim_. It flashed in your notifications often, at least once a day, questions of how you were, if all was well. You always replied with:  _Yes, of course, thank you. How are you?_

And you were. It was odd; the horror you had felt that night had turned to numbness for a while, a state of shock that had both Harvey and Jim concerned; until... well, how could you put it?

You had begun to dream of it: the incident, the jolt of emotions in you when he pushed you half over the parapet, the igniting of fire when he pulled the trigger at your temple. It had bled from terror to a sense of thrill. The feeling spread in you with each dream. It was  _odd_ , and, at times, you thought it was  _wrong_. These feelings had never been present with Harvey. There were times when you  _thought_ you had caught of a glimpse of something else – someone else – in his face, but it would vanish, and you had always been sure it was a mistake, a deception of the eye. Harvey Dent had always been composed, polished and beautiful and above the perceivable imperfections of this earth. A star, who would rise, fashioned from his intelligence and passion into a hero. A man with whom you could feel safe, secure, loved.  _Bored. Forgotten. Heartbroken._

With Jerome, it was all  _fire_. Never still, he danced, raged in his excitement – all-consuming, but beautiful also. You had experienced but one lick of his flames, and now you found yourself craving more.  _Why_? You asked yourself. Why would you ever want to put yourself in danger again?  _Why?_

Because it was fun. And life was, after all, too short for tears. It was time to  _live_.

So, when Jim called, voice raised, tone concerned, you felt that jolt again. There was a trace of fear but it was minimal, overwhelmed instead by a growing excitement as he said, "You have to leave your apartment, [Y/N] –  _now_. He—He's coming. Go to Harvey's, I'll be there in five minutes.  _Go, now_!"

You didn't get far. The front door burst open before you could leave. A flash of red hair seemed too bright in the gloom of your apartment when the figure in the doorway rushed forward. Streetlight illuminated the corners and furniture enough to run without injury, but it was no use. He cornered you in the kitchenette, his grin just as bright as his hair in the dark.

"[Y/N] Dent!" He straightened, pushed his hair back. "I've missed you."

Holding your phone out in front of you, as if it were a weapon, you found your voice waver in a whisper, "It's only been a month. The gala wasn't so long ago." You were suddenly nervous.

"An eternity." He had a taste for theatrics, you realised. An unending energy you had once attributed to his youth. Now, you were sure it was a part of his sociopathic nature.

His smile was ever-present on his handsome face.

"Why are you here, Jerome?" The buzz of your phone startled you, and his gaze turned upon it.  _Jim_ , you saw. It rang, and rang, and rang, and you knew he would come if you didn't pick up. That relieved you. But there was a part of you... that almost didn't want him to come.

"We never got to finish our conversation." It happened in a flash. Jerome moved so fast you could barely register it at all before he had you pushed against the wall. In a moment, past the perplexity, your mind realised the metallic scent you had caught on him that night of the gala (blood, it dawned...  _It was blood_...) was gone. Who had died that night... before he saw you... before he touched you with those same hands he had used to kill another?

He was leaning close. "I didn't realise that night just who you were. Just a pretty face, crying pretty tears." If it was possible, he stepped closer. "Not until Dent jumped forward to catch you in the dark. Even then, I didn't quite put it together. Not until the  _Gotham Gazette_ printed your name.  _The District Attorney's wife_..." He leaned his head down, looked up at you as he lowered his voice, and mocked, "It's like you're not even your own person.  _Tsk_! Are you having a little trouble in paradise, Mrs Dent?"

" _Why_ are you  _here_?" Like a record on repeat, but it was all your mind could process at the moment – truly, why  _was_ he there?

He ignored it. "I can help. I can set you free. I don't particularly like Dent, anyway, so—"

It clicked. "Did you do something?"

Jerome laughed. "To your husband?"

"Did you?" Louder, this time he seemed to listen.

"I didn't. I just paid his house a visit, thinking you'd be there. I didn't realise you were separated until tonight." He tapped your nose when you narrowed your eyes up at him suspiciously. "I didn't do anything to him.  _Yet_."

"Don't." You pushed him from you. The shock of such an act made him stumble backwards. "Don't  _ever_ — Don't you  _dare_."

His smile was strained as he mused to himself. Head to the side, brown eyes no longer shallow glass but instead deep, searching, alive. He studied your face; the breaths that fell from your parted lips heavy in his ears; the perfume upon your skin a sweet scent he still sensed despite the new distance. Just, he was no longer touching you – his fingers twitched at his sides.

"I won't." His voice came out soft. "I just want to hang out with you."

Your breath caught in your throat. You might have laughed if the situation wasn't just so insanely bizarre. His hand reached out for you but stopped in the air. The pause felt palpable, and it felt like an eternity before you asked, strangely calm, "Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I like you." Then, he was smiling – a sly expression that lit up his entire face. "And, I think you like me, too. Whether you care to admit it or not."

You released a breath. "Piss off."

Jerome grinned. "I like it when you get feisty. It makes me  _feel_   _things_."

You found yourself scoffing. "Piss  _off_."

But he didn't. And you didn't want him to.

His hand was warm when he held yours. The sensation seemed to spread through you as he pulled you outside, up the stairwell, up and up and up until you were bursting out onto the rooftop. Out of breath and laughing despite yourself, you followed him to the edge, where he helped you up, his touch just as warm through your clothed waist as it had been on the naked skin of your palm.

"We don't have long." He tucked some hair behind your ear when the wind whipped it too much. "Sour-faced Gordon will be here any moment. And the D.A., no doubt."

You said nothing. There wasn't much to say. Not when he jumped up beside you, arms spread wide, as if to fall over the edge. The wind whipped through his hair, and it looked truly for a moment as if fire danced atop his head. His laughter was swept in the air when he felt your hand grip his leg, as if to pull him back like at the gala, and he was already reaching down for you. His arm was tight, holding you to his side when a panicked look overcame your features – you were high up,  _very, very, very, very_ high.

"Isn't this fun?" He held you closer when you shook your head. "It's more so because you're here with me." When you didn't respond, he asked, voice feigning hurt, "Am I not flirting right? I thought that was smooth. Why isn't it working?"

You shivered against the cold. "Because we're ten storeys up and I'm freezing. Try again when we're safe and warm."

He made a face. "That sounds too vanilla."

He pushed you, but in the second you gasped he had already pulled you back. Falling, you felt his arms close around you in an embrace, it softened the impact against the solid concrete of the rooftop. But he laughed, no pain harsh enough to faze him. It rose and fell, a dance in the air like an open flame, so full of life it sparked a sense of joy in you.

His voice, however, was serious, when he spoke to you.

"I think you're lying to yourself, [Y/N]." He blew your hair out of your face. "You enjoy the thrill of danger. Your life so far has been a straight line, one you've followed without thought, without living. So let me give you the adventure you deserve. The one you want." After a pause, he whispered, "Come with me."

You felt your phone buzzing in his pocket. His body was close, too close.

As you considered his words, he took the device out, and smiled. "Your husband," he informed you.

_Harv_... He was coming, you knew it.

"Okay," you agreed. "I'll come."

It started off small. Jerome never showed you the upfront chaos of his anarchist deeds. He would return while you fretted, all laughter and smiles, high on the rush of adrenaline. He showed you how to pick locks, steal into unattended manors, ones you had visited when with Harvey that now you trashed with Jerome. You hot-wired a car and managed to start it up on your first attempt, to which Jerome shrugged and said, "Beginner's luck, darling." He had laughed when you went to punch his arm, and had caught your wrist, pressed a kiss there. "I'm just pullin' your leg, [Y/N/N]. I'm proud of your deviation from strict moralities and propriety. It's hot."

Then, finally, he gave you a mask. "There's a bash at that Wayne's manor tomorrow night," he told you. "Come with me."

Anxious, knowing it might all end that night if just one step went awry, you decided to decline. But the excitement was too much to ignore. You put on the mask, a tearful clown, and nodded up at Jerome.

Tremors had come upon you when you arrived at the manor the following evening. Jerome lifted your mask up to search your face. "I'm happy you're here, with me, [Y/N]."

That eased your worries a little. "Me too."

His lips were soft when he kissed the side of your mouth. You turned your head and your lips brushed against his. Immediately, he deepened the kiss, smirking triumphantly against your mouth. He leaned back at last and pushed your mask down into place.

"There," he said, opening the car door. "I won't be able to leave this car if you keep looking at me with those pretty eyes."

Rolling your eyes, you attempted to stifle a smile. It was no use.

You followed him out, noticing at last the fresh snowfall, the flakes melting on your palm when you held it up.

_A new beginning,_ you thought.

To think, once these same masks had horrified you; these people, who surrounded you now, had turned from adversaries to companions.

Those who gathered in the opulent glow of mansions and ballrooms were no longer the friends you had known, but strangers to the clown that hid your true face. Victims to the chaos you meant to bring.

As you slipped inside the manor, a thought dawned on you, a seed surreal and horrifying that when planted, it took the breath from your lungs. If he was in there, Harvey was now your foe. Not friend, not husband, but the D.A. An enemy that Jerome might once have been.

_What were you doing?_

Your feet stopped. Jerome was gone, up the grand staircase, had navigated the halls to the ballroom where the rich were gathered. His followers, having not faltered behind him as you had, were nowhere in sight also.

The mask scratched your left cheek when you pulled it off too harshly, leaving a sting there in your skin. As the face of the clown fell to the floor, your wide eyes found the calm gaze of a boy.

You inhaled, the air a sharp whistle that caught in the back of your throat. "I'm sorry, Bruce Wayne."

The boy shook his head, his features soft, kind. "Don't apologise. I'm not mad." After a pause, in which he studied you for a while longer, he said, "It's not too late, [Y/N] Dent. You can come back. Gordon will help you. The D.A. will help you. I'll help you. You need to be  _safe_. And you're not when you're with  _him_."

Distant screams drifted even to where you stood with Bruce. He grimaced, and made to rush towards the source, but stopped when he remembered you.

"Please. Go upstairs. Hide. I'll come back for you. I'll tell Gordon and Dent. We'll come get you."

"No, don't go in there—"

Again, you were alone. His disappearance was followed by a surge of panic, a desperation to escape. You found your feet in flight, each bounding step carried you far from the manor, out from its warmth and across the cold grounds. Each breath was strangled, sobs lodged in your throat, exhales mingled in the air as mist. Heat ached and coursed through your moving body.

_What were you doing? What had you done?_

Jerome was like fire, hot, enticing, and you had been drawn like a moth to a flame. But fire could not be controlled. An inferno burned. It burned, and it burned, and burned... it would burn you alive if you got too close. If you let it. If you let him. Almost, you had.

_Almost_...

 


	3. inferno | part iii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> all things have an end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super canon-divergent . aged-up jerome . two-face's origin is different . probably ridiculously ooc (for everybody)
> 
> really fucking long (am I talking about this fic or jerome's big dick energ– I'm talking about this fic, lol, here's a glass of water sweetie if the thirst is too much heheh~)
> 
> here we are. this is the end. bye bye jer-bear. it was nice while it lasted. it's time for you to take your big dick energy elsewhere. now it's two-face's time to shine.

The woods seemed so dark now. Leaves crackled and rustled under your pounding feet. Too far, the cars were too far, hidden in the dusk from unwanted sight – inconvenient for escape, you now realised. It was locked when you stumbled upon it. Without thinking, you smashed your elbow into the window, insensate to the sharp pain as glass showered down into the driver's seat.

"Please," you murmured. Shivers made your hands shake, but, determined, you scrambled down to hot-wire the car. "Please, please, please."

The sounds could have guided anyone to your location. Nerves fuelled your frustration, and as time went on, it only grew.

_ Beginner's luck,  _ Jerome had said. Maybe it really had been.

You sat up, braced yourself against the steering wheel. After a long time, too long, they came; tears gushed down your cheeks, each drop carrying the horror, guilt, distress brewing inside of you. After a while, they abated, enough for you to take a deep breath, set your jaw, and try again.

_ Breathe _ . You gave a long exhale.  _Be calm. And breathe._

The car came to life. You gave a yelp of triumph and hurried up, the slam of the door as you shut it like music to your ears. In your haste the seatbelt went forgotten (fuck that, you thought). The manor became smaller and smaller, leaving it in the distance you sped through empty suburban streets to...  _to where_ , you wondered,  _where would you go_ —

Where was safe? Where could you go that you felt secure?

When you pulled up outside the townhouse, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted from your shoulders. But, you hesitated. It had been  _so long_. Well over a year you hadn't been inside, not since you left that life behind. Home... the place where you had started that life, with the man you had once thought you loved with all your heart, where love had bloomed... then wilted, and dried.

Still, inside, your soul waited – the part that had been intertwined with Harvey's. Was it still the same? Did your pictures line the walls even now? Or had Harvey moved on, erased your presence from his home, if the pain had been too much to bear?

There was only one way of finding out.

Your search for the spare key proved successful – he had not changed that, at least. It was hidden on the patch of grass outside, where a tree stood tall and proud, on the bark was etched yours and Harvey's name from the night you and he had gotten overly caffeinated while unpacking. Within the fake rock, there it was. And although it looked just like all the others scattered across the grass, you remembered it still.

The place was yours and Harvey's. You laughed through the tears. That had not changed, after all.

You let yourself in. It felt strange, stepping over the threshold. When once it had been your place of comfort, where you would return every day after work, greeted Harvey when he came in and curled up on the sofa together. Then, waited, when he would not.

_ No _ , you shook your head. No more sadness tonight. You had enough to deal with.

Leaving the lights off, you climbed up the stairs. At the top were your wedding photos. You walked past it, unable to look at how happy you both had been, before Gotham came between you.

The bedroom was tidy – you knew it would be. You sat on the bed, ran your hand over the blankets, soft and scented from Harvey's body. The urge to lie there and cocoon yourself in his scent was overwhelming. But it didn't feel right. This wasn't your bed anymore.

So, you slept in the guest bedroom. Or, more like, not at all. Morning came at last and you hurried downstairs. You made breakfast: pancakes and golden syrup and hot chocolate. The smell of it livened up the kitchen. You sat at the island and waited. Waited, and waited, and waited. It brought back those memories, late nights alone, waking up to mornings without Harvey beside you in bed.

But this, this was much,  _much_ worse. Where was Harvey? What had happened to him? Was he safe, was he okay,  _was he alive_?

The day stretched into night. That was when the apprehension became too much to bear. No amount of possible excuses could abate them. You went to the phone, glad that you had Jim's number memorised, and called him. It took a few tries, moments of utter frustration as the dial tone rang and rang, until you finally reached him.

"This is Gordon. Who is this—"

"Jim!" You braced yourself against the wall. "Jim, Jim, it's me – [Y/N]. Jim, I don't know where Harvey is. I'm— I'm at our— his house. He hasn't been home since last night and—"

"[Y/N]." A sigh cut you off. But it wasn't one of exasperation, no, it sounded so relieved. It had been an age since he had spoken to you, too long since he knew if you were all right. But then his voice became strained – cautious, worried. "Bruce told me you were there last night. I'm... I'm glad you didn't stick around." He cleared his throat. "Listen, something... Last night didn't end well. Harvey... Please, I don't want you to be upset. I'll send a car to pick you up. I'll talk to you after you get here."

"Where?" you asked immediately.

"Just hang tight. It shouldn't be too long." Before he hung up, he said, "I'm so glad you're home, [Y/N]. I'm glad you called. I'll see you soon."

It wasn't a lie; the squad car arrived in ten minutes; but it felt like an eternity. You had paced the whole house, fussing, cleaning (small things, broken shards of your favourite vase brushed under a table, his photos strewn messily across the mantelpiece, among other things, all hidden away, small disruptions of Harvey's usual perfection that left you surprised), biting your nails. Finally, when the doorbell rang, you would have pulled the door off its hinges if possible when you swung it open in haste. The two officers looked shocked, returning your hurried greetings, before leading you to the car. As you climbed in, one asked if you wanted to lock the front door, to which you held the key out the window for her to take.

"Where are we going?" You leaned forward to look at the officer in the driver's seat. "Is Harvey okay?"

The other officer returned and got into the passenger's seat. She held your key out, shifted uncomfortably and shared a glance with her partner, then said, "He's tough. He'll be fine, ma'am."

"He's hurt?" The world slammed down on you.

The driver cleared her throat. "He's a hero, that's what he is. If he hadn't done what he did the other night, four people might have been dead. He... put himself in danger, to make sure they were safe."

You sank into the seat, suddenly exhausted. Your voice faltered, "Are we going to the hospital?"

"Yes ma'am." Again, their gazes found each other. "We're very sorry for everything you've been through, ma'am. We assure you, you're safe with us. That maniac can't get to you, not again."

You sat up and glanced out the window. It was all too much. Jerome... Could you have done something. Anything, that might have stopped him from hurting those people – from hurting Harvey? Your hands shook. You had gone there to do the same, you realised. It might have been you who hurt Harvey, if you hadn't run off that night.

"[Y/N]," you heard yourself mutter, loud enough for them to hear. "Call me [Y/N]."

Jim was at the door as soon as you arrived. He helped you out, looking at you almost as if you were a ghost. He pulled you into a hug and your arms instantly held him tight. He knew, you knew he did, that you had gone with Jerome willingly. But still he held you close.

The smell of the hospital was almost nauseating when he led you inside. Jim noticed the discomfort on your face. Patting your shoulder, he said softly, "Sorry. I'm sure you'd rather be home right now. I don't know what you've been through..."

The answer came naturally. "I want to be with Harvey right now." So fast, that you knew you meant it more than anything in the world at that moment. "Nowhere else."

Jim stopped you then. The elevator  _ding_ ed, and even though the doors opened, he did not step inside. "There was a fire, [Y/N]. Jerome and his goons burned half of Wayne Manor down."

"Oh god." Your hand flew to your mouth. "Bruce – is he okay?"

"Bruce is fine. Alfred made sure of that." He hesitated. His hand found yours and gave your fingers a reassuring squeeze, as if to anchor you. "Jerome held a gun to his head, said he could die that moment after having tasted life with you. It was to taunt Harvey, we knew, but there was truth in it. Harvey flipped out. But by then, Jerome's goons had started the fire."

You managed to whisper, "What happened to Jerome?"

"Harvey shot him." There was a trace of surprise in Jim's eyes. "He had Bruce at gunpoint. So Harvey... Um, but he still escaped."

You shuddered. You didn't know if that was good, or bad, or awful.

"Harvey wouldn't leave. Not until he knew everyone had gotten out. He went to the kitchens, where Alfred said some staff were working. Alfred rushed to the back of the manor to help after he got Bruce out, but once the four had gotten out, and Alfred went to pull Harvey out, the gas caught fire and... well..."

You slammed your fist into the calling button. Jim startled.

"Take me to him."

He was rasping. The room was private, with a sole hospital bed, and you were glad it was – you wanted to be alone with him. The city he had devoted himself to was sprawled out the window behind him where he lay. You hated that you hadn't seen him for so long. You had avoided him after the morning he made you breakfast, and although his work kept him busy, he had tried to see you here and there. The guilt had been too much even then; because your dreams had been of a man who spat on the law, while your husband was a man of justice.

You drew closer. He was heavily bandaged – head, neck, and shoulder. You had wanted to see his face, to look into his eyes and tell him how much you missed him, how sorry you were.

You sat at his bedside. "Harv?"

The nurse in the corner shook his head. "He can't, ma'am. He can't speak just yet. Let him rest. It'll take a while, but he's a strong one, the D.A. will be up and happy to see you as soon as he can, I'm sure."

You waited.

Sometimes, when the nurses came to freshen his bandages, you would be ushered out into the hallway. Other times, he was taken to the surgery room. Jim sent the two officers to take you home, then bring you back each day. And so, you waited. And waited. And waited. All you wanted was for Harvey to open his eyes, to look at you, and tell you he was okay. You wanted to hold his hand, feel the warmth of his palm, kiss his fingers, hear his voice.

You wanted, you wanted, you wanted...

One morning, Jim met you at the hospital's entrance again. He smiled at you as he pulled you into a hug. Some of the worry had faded from his face.

"He's awake," he said. "They've taken some of the bandages off. His right side is fine. You can see him now."

His right side... You didn't dare ask him about his left side.

The first thing you noticed when you entered the room was that Harvey had his head turned. At the sound of your footsteps, he shifted even further away, until you could see his dark hair and the side of his exposed neck. His hand clenched into a fist at his side.

You tried to hang back. But the surge of relief and elation was too much, and your feet carried you in a rush to his side.

"Harv!" you cried out. "Oh, I'm  _so glad_ —"

He turned suddenly. "You're  _glad_? [Y/N] you're— Aren't you disappointed that I didn't die? That Jerome's fire didn't kill me?" He hit the side of the bed with his fist. "So you could finally be free of me?"

"No—" You began to stammer. Hurt exploded in you.

The side of his face exposed to you was flushed. There was a glint, but it wasn't harsh; it became more obvious as tears filled his right eye. And then, you realised it, as his fist clutched the blanket too tight: he wasn't  _angry_. No, he was disconsolate, because he was sad. Not just from the night of the fire, but from before, too. It had all detonated into a burst of dejection, self-hatred, the shards of his broken heart piercing away at what normality and composure he had striven to maintain.

You fell to your knees at his side. "Do you hate me, Harvey?"

His jaw clenched. But, finally, with a hiss – a pained sharp intake of breath – he replied, "No. God, [Y/N], no, I don't hate you. I couldn't. I can't." He exhaled. "I love you."

You reached for his hand. He didn't pull away. "I'm sorry, Harv."

"You would have still left." Again, like that time in your office, it wasn't a question.

"Our marriage was on the brink of failure," you sighed. "I had you in memory. But not in person. Not in the present." You leaned your cheek against his hand, gripped gently between both yours. "I would have still left, yes. But, Jerome... I shouldn't have..."

He grunted. "I'm sure the brat gave you more thrill and life than I ever had."

_ True _ .  _But_... You smiled, tightened your grip on his hand. "I never stopped, Harv. I didn't stop loving you. I've loved you since college, since you smiled at me, kissed me the first time. All those nights you'd help me make flashcards, when I'd wake up to you making me breakfast. When you'd watch my favourite movies without complaint. Stayed up late to talk about nothing and everything, even when you had so much to do the next morning." You looked at him, and saw his gaze had softened. "I've loved you since we exchanged vows. Even after I left, I meant it, I still loved you. I understood, I  _understand_  why you dedicate yourself so much to Gotham. And I cherish you for it. But— yes, I loved the thrill, but really, I just wanted  _you_. I always have."

The energy seemed to have drained from him. He sunk so much into the mattress under the blankets that you thought you'd lose him in the bed. Shuffling forward, you tightened your hold more. Harvey sighed, despondent.

"I'm... These bandages, [Y/N], if you saw what was under them—"

"I'd see the signs of your heroism."

He shook his head. "It's monstrous.  _I'm_ monstrous. I've tried to hide it from you for years. I've tried to hide it from  _myself_. But... I'm not... I'm not..."

"You're Harvey Dent." You smiled, hoping he could see the affection in your eyes. "You're you. The same man; filled with so much love and dedication. Intelligent, driven. You're my Harvey. Whoever you are, whoever you're meant to be, stop hiding, I'll always be proud of you. Just, please, come back to me."

You reached out with a hand and ghosted your fingers over his bandages. In silence, he guided your intertwined hands to the left side of his face, to the bandages that hid his burns. He turned your hands until the back of yours was resting against it.

"I'll be here, Harv. I'll always be there, whenever you need me."

Harvey breathed out a sigh, and his shoulders relaxed. He held something, it stood out against his pale palm when he opened his fist – his coin, burned on one side (a side same as the other). "Do you want a divorce, [Y/N]?"

And you shook your head, leaned forward to kiss the side of his mouth, sure when you said against his skin, "No."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were hoping for vanilla Harvey back, well, honey, you've got a big storm comin'.


End file.
